A response to Continuous Topography #amwriting

I'm the first person to admit I'm not a poet. I don't even try. I can't. Anyway, I like poems to rhyme.

But there was something poetic that I had to pen today.  It was in response to a digital artwork I viewed at the Northern Gallery for Contemporary Art in Sunderland. It was called 'Continuous Topography' by an artist called Dan Holdsworth and there are images of the installation here.

I sat and watched it last week and knew I had to return with my writer's head on. I did that today and here's what spilled from my pen to my blog.

Skeleton blood of a bride in a filigree shroud. 
Networks and neurons, fingerprints dusted, curdling and screaming. 
A child's head, a shark's fin on the foggiest day where mountains are moving from a plane window. 
Demons are rising, stay home and don't climb. 
The ghosts of the mountains are crying ice tears. 
Snow storm and blizzards and etch-a-sketch lines are falling and jagged and squirling. 
Ice in your veins freezes blood in your soul. 
Indigo, violet, Richard died in vain in a snow-scape where darkened, bitter earth covered moon, frozen in motion. 
Petrified forests, microscope lice, the snow bed bugs bite in caverns and grottoes. 
Snow leopards, sea lions all turn their backs. 
White wolves wait with ice in their eyes. 
White hot volcano ice lava floes. 
No-one survives.

---

Debut novel Belle of the Back Streets
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